


all the good years before

by kuro49



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, pre-tales from year zero, pretty much just romance and fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 11:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2650016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is not her squadron captain, but she’s still her best fighter pilot. (Or, Tamsin says I love you, the 5+1-1 times.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	all the good years before

**Author's Note:**

> I promised myself that I will write Luna/Tamsin back during Femslash February (instead I wrote Tamsin/Mako but that's besides the point), so here it is, finally! :DD The 5 times are borrowed from [the first 5 on this list](http://thoughtcatalog.com/r-mckinley/2012/12/8-ways-to-say-i-love-you/).

1.

It burns on the way down.

And, fuck, if the liquid courage she’s downed with her head tipped all the way back feels like an empty waste now when she is forcing it back up in the form of those three words. If Tamsin thought it left scorches going down, it set a blazing trail coming back up, leaping off of her tongue and tearing itself apart between her teeth as Luna Pentecost’s voicemail starts up.

That bad idea feels like the absolute worst idea she could come up with.

Sober or drunk, she is too late in taking it back.

She has a confessed _I love you_ in a voicemail Tamsin doesn’t actually know if she checks.

 

(She does.

She is sitting at the island of the kitchen with a clean plate sitting in front of her when she enters the password for her voicemail into her phone. Stacker is standing by the stove, having just cracked a second egg, sunny side up on her request, when the Pentecost siblings hear it.

“Is that…” He starts, spatula held inches from the pan, and he doesn’t look away until Luna finally looks up from her phone with her eyes wide, confirming what he already knows. “…That is.”

The egg that ends up on her plate is a little charred, and that about says it all.

Luna’s cheeks are still warm when she gets to work.

And her cheeks burn red when she sees Tamsin walking in.)

 

 

 2.

It’s a sigh against her thigh when she goes down on her in the narrow shower stall, one hand curving around her hip, the other on the back of her knee. Tamsin’s bitten nails scratching lightly across the soft skin, nudging her to part her legs a little further apart.

Luna’s breathy moans fill the narrow space.

The water from the shower fills the rest.

And in between, in those little crevices where the tiles dig into her knees and her chipped nail polish meets cuticle, she says it, and she says it again. Her heart beating louder with each one, each exhale, each time she has Luna coming with just her hands and tongue.

 

(Those three words fit like her hand in hers.

Tugging her up, Tamsin kisses her neck, and Luna imagines she can hear those words without having Tamsin say them at all. And it feels like all those times she takes her hand in the streets. Where she laces their fingers together and pulls her close. Like that very first time, when Tamsin asks her out on a date, the words a mess of nerves, there is only a second delay before Luna is saying yes.

And yes, and yes again.

Angling her head, Tamsin drops another kiss to the curve of her shoulder.

“Come on, Tam, don’t tease me now.”

Luna can’t help but laugh when she tilts her chin to catch Tamsin’s mouth, kissing her full on her lips as she tastes herself from her tongue.)

 

 

3.

She feels ridiculous.

Sitting here, tugging at the edge of her dress, smoothing her hands across the fancy tablecloth, Tamsin feels utterly ridiculous. She doesn’t have a ring in that tiny, useless excuse of a clutch but it feels like she should.

Luna sits across the short distance and she touches the strap on her dress enough times.

“Dessert?” The waiter asks, his smile nice, not kind, and Tamsin knows the answer before he ever even asks.

Reaching across the distance, she touches the back of Luna’s hand like Luna touches her strap, and says. “We’re saving room for the poutine down the street.”

That isn’t on the plans tonight.

Neither is confessing the same three words for the hundredth time when Tamsin drops the complementary mint in Luna’s palm when the waiter comes back with their bill.

 

(There are flowers from last week still sitting in a vase on her dinner table. The card is on her dresser and the box of assorted chocolates is picked clean of the good ones between Stacks and her.

“Isn’t this a bit excessive?” Stacker asks when Luna comes home with a teddy bear in her arms, and he isn’t one to say anything but that is a carnival-worthy sized teddy bear that his sister comes home with.

“I’m living in a romantic comedy, Stacks,” She tells him as she sets the bear down on one of the kitchen chairs, and she still taste gravy and cheese as she continues, “Anything else from you and I’m revoking your chocolate privileges.”

Stacker doesn’t quite roll his eyes.)

 

 

 4.

The room is dark but Tamsin can see every rise and fall of Luna’s chest, the fan of her hair on the printed pillowcase, the warmth of her sleeping so close. She is lying right next to her, curled up close enough to smell that faint scent of her soap still on her skin.

Tamsin counts the breaths, every soft inhale and each exhale that follows.

She murmurs it, and it’s even softer.

When Luna shifts, Tamsin slides her eyes shut just as quickly, turning into the warmth, hiding her face in the space between the two pillows, hiding just how she feels in words already spoken.

 

(“Tam.”

Tamsin’s head is hanging off the edge of the mattress, her legs extended across, heavy in sleep, draped across both of Luna’s, pinning her effectively to the bed. And given so many good nights they’ve had so far, here in their bed, here in Tamsin’s turned theirs apartment, Luna still wonders how this plays out exactly according to script every morning they spend together.

And how it speaks of domesticity when Luna loves it every time she gets to do this.

Luna doesn’t remember much of last night but she vaguely remembers a good dream, one where Tamsin might have been talking in her sleep. One where _g’night_ sounds a whole lot like _love you_.)

 

 

5.

She is dancing like it’s the only thing that she knows how.

She doesn’t, she really doesn’t know how. Her feet follow Luna’s, half a step slower, half a step further than where her feet should land. The tiles of the kitchen is cool beneath her bare feet but warmer with Luna in the small space, the stove boiling water for the pasta they will be having tonight.

Tamsin isn’t looking at her own reflection in the stainless silver, doesn’t need to see the flash of her red hair and the ridiculous turns she makes.

“I love you,” She says when Luna is shaking the salt into the pot, “In that shirt, y’know.”

She dances to the beat of her heart in her throat, she dances until Luna spins her in her arms. The water they boil the spaghetti in is saltier than usual, but dinner tastes just as good.

“Glad you do, Tam, this shirt’s yours.”

 

(She is thinking about the diced tomatoes sitting on the counter.

She is also thinking about the rosemary and the faint sounds as Tamsin’s feet contacts the cool tiles of the kitchen. Luna doesn’t know how to look away, doesn’t know how when Tamsin says the things she does, doesn’t know how when Tamsin dances like she’s got two left feet.

Luna looks down at her shirt, the one with a coyote splashed across her chest, and grins at the three words that came before.

“I love you too.”

There’s nothing that follows but just the way Tam smiles, and smiles.)

 

 

+1

They are in the living room of their London flat when she brings it up, Luna with her feet kicked up on the glass table, the bowl of popcorn resting on her stomach as she speaks over the explosions from the television.

“What do you think about training new pilots?”

“I’m thinking fresh meat,” Tamsin replies without skipping a beat, turning away from the gratuitous violence on screen, “Where are you thinking?”

“San Francisco.”

And there’s something that warms Tamsin’s heart like it’s butter when Luna’s grin has her lips turning up at the corners.

“When do we leave?”

 

-1

Having been in the military as long as they've been, Stacker is still astounded every time his sister and his best friend do the things they do. Gone with a note scribbled in haste, keys to their apartment left on the kitchen counter of his.

They tell him to water that plant they have in the bathroom. The one Stacker knows it’s a cactus they named after him because Tamsin isn’t above cheap entertainment like that and Luna only encourages her all the more.

Luna calls it a vacation.

Tamsin calls it a second honeymoon.

 

All of which, Stacker only knows as a lie, one that burns like the blue coasting along the Pacific waves now.

 

XXX Kuro


End file.
